


poka ne obagrilasja ruka

by thatgothlibrarian



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Conductor Laurent, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, M/M, Opera Singer Damen, Operas, Power Dynamics, Voice Kink, please excuse me while i go full opera queen on main
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25592428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgothlibrarian/pseuds/thatgothlibrarian
Summary: Ах! Не засмеяться ль нам, покаНе обагрилася рука,Не разойтись ли полюбовно?Ah! Ne zasmejat'sja l' nam, pokaNe obagrilasja ruka,Ne razojtis' li poljubovno?Oh, should we not burst out laughingbefore we stain our hands with blood,and should we not part friends?- Lensky and Onegin Duet, Act Two Scene Two of Eugene Onegin, by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky~~~Laurent DeVere is the music director of the Arles Opera Company. His brother, Auguste DeVere, is a world-renowned baritone. However, when an upstart baritone named Damianos Akielos secures the lead baritone roles instead of Auguste for the upcoming season, Laurent must bottle his anger and annoyance—and confront his desire.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 35





	poka ne obagrilasja ruka

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is an idea that's been kicking around in my head for a few months, and I finally got the inspiration and time to write it. I have been getting into opera over the past few years, and it really kicked into high gear in December 2019, when I saw _Akhnaten_ at the Met. My gay opera queen ass just couldn't resist a Captive Prince opera AU. All of the chapter titles begin with the Italian translation of "act [insert act number here]", followed by the Romanization of the Russian libretto for _Eugene Onegin._ (I don't speak a lick of Russian, so please forgive any errors.) The main title is also from _Eugene Onegin._
> 
> More info in the end notes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _...волна и камень,  
>  Стихи и проза, лед и пламень,  
> Не столь различны меж собой...  
> Как мы взаимной разнотой!_
> 
> _...volna i kamen',  
>  Stihi i proza, led i plamen',  
> Ne stol' razlichny mezh soboj...  
> Kak my vzaimnoj raznotoj!_
> 
> _... wave and rock,  
>  poetry and prose, ice and flame,  
> are not as different as we are...  
> ...in our contrasting natures!_
> 
> _\- Lensky, Act One Scene One of Eugene Onegin, by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovksy_  
>  ~~~  
> In which auditions are held, tensions run high, and things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to the quartet where the title comes from here: [Tchaikovsky: Eugene Onegin, Op.24, TH.5 / Act 1 - "Skazhi, kotoraya Tatyana"](https://youtu.be/PvP4Hqgqy_k)
> 
> More info in the end notes!

Sweat pours down his face. Hairs fall loose from his low ponytail, like the horsehair of the bows sawing out the frenzied melody. The entire cast onstage raises their one collective voice to the cheap seats at the top of the theatre, which itself is a kind of heaven. Laurent makes eye contact with each performer on stage, each musician in his orchestra, as he holds out his hands for the final sustained note. He closes off the note, and for a single moment, there’s complete silence, until—

Thunderous applause.

Shouts of _brava!_ and _bravo!_ fill the air as the singers take their bows. The leading soprano rushes to the pit to bring him on stage for one final bow. Laurent is sandwiched between her and his brother, Auguste, who is playing the primary baritone role. A few old-fashioned fans rush to the front of the stage and throw bouquets to their favorite performers, mainly the soprano. But there, pushing through is Auguste’s wife, Amèlie, who throws a dozen roses to Auguste and blows a kiss in his direction with a wink. As is his custom, any time he sings in a production Laurent conducts, Auguste pulls one rose from the bunch to give to him, kissing the top of his head. The two of them raise their held hands above their heads and sweep them dramatically down as the curtain closes.

* * *

“You know, it sounded like you were going a little flat at the end of your big aria.”

Auguste rolls his eyes as he finishes chewing a bite of arancini. “It was my last performance of the season,” he says. “Nobody is perfect all the time, especially after an intense season.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Laurent responds. He remembers being a kid and thinking Auguste hung the moon, that he could do nothing wrong. If Auguste wasn’t perfect, then what? But there was no reason for Auguste to make the kinds of mistakes he was making: he was still in a prime age for the stage. Laurent takes a sip of his martini.

They do this after every opening and closing night. The place is nothing fancy, just a hole-in-the-wall cocktail bar a few blocks from the opera house. It’s a small space with low-light and movie posters hanging on the walls in all different languages. There are never too many people, but the bartender knows the two of them, knows what they do, and always gives them at least one drink on the house, each. _I’m a huge opera fan,_ she told them one night, their third or fourth time coming in. She gives them a free drink, and Laurent hooks her up with a free ticket for each production.

After a full night of formal outfits and costumes, it’s nice to relax. Laurent isn’t much of a drinker, but he always breaks his sobriety with Auguste.

“Anyway,” Auguste continues, “I have a few weeks until next season’s auditions. Plenty of time to give my voice a break.”

“What repertoire did you have in mind?”

Auguste steals the olive from Laurent’s martini. “Well, it would be pretty tasteless to do _Billy Budd_ or _Onegin,_ since they’re in the lineup.” Laurent nods. “I don’t know. It’s a baritone-forward season. I wonder if a certain snake of a music director has anything to do with that.”

“I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Laurent retorts with poorly-feigned innocence. “It’s not _all_ baritone leads. Quite a few _bel canto_ soprano crowd-pleasers.”

“I think if you ever did a season without one Puccini or Verdi, the whole city would riot.”

Laurent laughs, finishing his drink. “You’re not wrong about that. God, I’m so sick of Verdi. I want to get some 20th-century stuff, or even more contemporary. Maybe a Glass. Or something queer!” He runs his hands down his face. “But I know it would flop.”

“But why? Arles is a _city._ There’s avant-garde shit all over the place, let alone queer stuff. Besides, you _did_ get _Billy Budd._ And queer interpretations of _Eugene Onegin_ are super hot right now. Probably wouldn’t be hard to do with yours.”

Laurent levels a look at his brother. “Are those avant-garde queer whatevers _going to the opera?_ Exactly.” Laurent sighs, ignoring the rest of the points Auguste made. “I’m gonna grab some water. You want anything?”

“Sure, I’ll just have a cider before we head out.”

After a few minutes, Laurent comes back with their drinks. “I think you should do ‘Largo al factotum.’ Yes, I know _Barber_ is in the season lineup,” Laurent interrupts whatever protest Auguste was about to make, “but that’s one where we have to know if a singer can pull it off before we cast them. And I know you can do it in your sleep.”

“How bad is it that you’re telling me what I should audition with?”

Laurent puts up his hands. “When you audition, they don’t let me in the decision-making room. I give them my notes, and they get back to me with their roster.” He takes a sip of water. “…Only a little bad.”

* * *

Later, after the celebration and drinks, Laurent goes home alone to his flat. It’s small, but it’s just him, so it’s not like he needs much space. There’s a guest bedroom only if Auguste visits, but Laurent mostly uses that as a home office. His living room has a small couch and coffee table, but the bulk is taken up by his piano. Now, Laurent will be the first to admit he’s no virtuoso, but as a conductor, he rarely gets the opportunity to _play_ anymore. Plus, it allows him to work through scores in the private quiet of his own space.

After a shower, Laurent grabs a glass of water and plops down on the couch. He grabs the book sitting on the coffee table and opens to where he left off. He reads a few pages, then stops, realizing he hasn’t absorbed anything. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, flipping back to where he started. He tries again, and tries, and tries, but can’t seem to keep focused. He gives up with a huff and flings the book back on the table. Laurent rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. He sees the single red rose sitting in its small vase where he puts all the flowers Auguste gives him from his bouquets.

Not once has someone thrown a bouquet to him. Laurent feels juvenile, letting such a fact upset him. And it’s not like he would just get some secret admirer. No, he’s too busy for dating: standards too high for all the apps out there, too intimidating and isolated for the average person. And he refuses to get involved with anyone else in the industry.

Opera is already dramatic enough.

Still…Laurent wouldn’t love the artform if he weren’t a helpless romantic. He just tends to listen to his head more than his heart, which has served him well so far.

He decides to call it a night because his mind is not in any logical place for the time being. He shuts off the lights in his apartment and heads into his bedroom. It’s a beautiful spring night, so he opens a window to let in the fresh air. Well, as fresh as city air can be. The moonlight shines a bright patch on his bed as he slips between the sheets, adjusting himself until he’s comfortable. Laurent closes his eyes and lies there; he’s not sure how long, but sleep won’t find him.

God, Laurent hates it when he gets in these moods of his. You would think he’s a hormone-addled teenager. If he gets off, at least that might finally knock him out. Feeling incredibly undignified, he slips his cotton shorts down and takes a hand to himself.

Both his mind and his body are uninspired, it seems. Must everything be frustrating tonight? The performance had gone so well, almost flawless. Even that one baritone in the chorus who kept missing his cues in rehearsal nailed it tonight.

What had his name been? Damianos something? He was infuriating to work with, but damn could the man sing. And, well, he was precisely Laurent’s type, if Laurent dated enough to establish such a thing.

Oh, fuck it.

Laurent’s face and neck grow hot with arousal as he imagines the hand wrapped around himself is not his, but a certain baritone’s much larger one. He bites the inside of his free wrist as his hips move of their own accord, and he comes, voice muffled against the skin. Laurent comes down from his orgasm, sleep already threatening to take him as he cleans himself. The last thought he has before he slips under is how he hopes Damianos isn’t in the chorus, or any prominent roles, next season.

* * *

_A few weeks later…_

“Thank you, can you send in the next person?” Laurent finishes his notes, not impressed. “We’ll be in touch.” He’s been sitting here for hours, seen so many people. Today is _just_ baritones. He’s already getting some ideas for non-lead parts, and more understudies and alternates for productions that will rotate casts like _Don Giovanni._ He’s biased, naturally, knowing Auguste should get most of these lead parts, but Laurent is trying his hardest to be objective. He knows Auguste’s strengths and weaknesses, what voice types he can do and what he can’t do, and not every baritone role this season will fit Auguste.

And then—

 _Speak of the devil,_ Laurent thinks as Auguste strides in. He hands his binder of prepared audition pieces to the pianist, who flips through the laminated pages as he announces his first piece.

“Hello, my name is Auguste DeVere,” he starts. “To begin, I’ll be singing ‘O du mein holder Abendstern’ from _Tannhäuser.”_

“Ready when you are, Mr. DeVere,” Laurent says, not meeting his eye. He tries to be as impersonal as possible when Auguste auditions, letting the other admins in the room take over from here. _A bit basic,_ he thinks, _but a perfect way to warm up._ Auguste has always had superb breath control, and his lyrical voice is warm and dark. He finishes, and the entire room applauds. It’s not as enthusiastic as it could be, but it’s so perfect and routine that it’s boring. He needs to do something to make him stand out.

The panel (Laurent excluded) and accompanist go through the prepared pieces Auguste brought. They settle on something and show it to Laurent for his approval before going forward. And it’s perfect. Laurent nods.

“Thank you,” he says. “Next, could you do ‘L’orage s’est calmé’ from _Les pêcheurs de perles?”_ He phrases it as a question, but everyone in this room knows it isn’t.

Auguste nods, smiling. “Of course, _maestro.”_ He shows the panel exactly why they chose this aria, and why he prepared it: it’s dynamic, demonstrates an upper register, and requires good acting. His voice swims through it like silk, melancholic like the quieted storm he sings about. The aria climaxes, high and loud, at the words _Ah! pardonnez aux transports d’un cœur irrité,_ the accompanist dropping out, only to come back in when he repeats the line, softer. _Ah! Forgive the passion of an angry heart!_ Laurent notices Auguste has let tears well in his eyes, putting every ounce of emotion into the piece.

Applause as Auguste finishes, flawless, not even breaking a sweat. Laurent would beam if he could.

Time for the final piece. The company typically doesn’t like asking singers to sing pieces from the upcoming season, but, of course, Figaro is always the exception. Laurent fidgets in his seat, hoping the panel picks it. They’ve agreed that the highest quality baritones have to finish with it.

“Thank you, Mr. DeVere,” the concertmaster says. “We would like you to show us your ‘Largo al factotum’ before you go.”

“Largo al factotum” is either the best or worst audition song. Laurent expected he might run into some problems finding someone who could sing it when he picked _Il barbiere di Siviglia._ Everyone and their grandmother know the aria. If you ask a random person off the street to sing something from an opera, nine times out of ten, they’ll give you their best _Figaro Figaro Fiiigaarooooo._ But it’s a hard piece: the baritone has to have flexibility, speed, diction, and a fantastic attitude. It’s so easy to make Figaro a flat lecherous fool.

Laurent nods at the pianist and Auguste. “Yes, _maestro,”_ Auguste says. The pianist starts playing a reduced version of the melody, giving Auguste a few bars before coming in.

 _“Largo al factotum della città, largo!”_ Auguste sings, warm and cheeky. This isn’t Auguste’s personality at all, and Laurent is amazed at how easily he can slip into Figaro’s skin when he sings this. He continues, finishing the first verse, letting some casual laughter into his voice. Laurent scoots forward in his seat when Auguste starts the second verse. One of the reasons this aria is so hard is the vocabulary. Lots of _-issimos_ sung very quickly, a tongue-twister if ever there was one.

_“Ah, bravo Figaro! Bravo, bravissimo! Bravo! La la la la la la la la la, la! Fortunatissimo per verità, bravo! La la la la la la la la la, La!”_

Perfect. Laurent makes some notes to that degree, complimenting Auguste’s mature diction and his volume control. He remembers when they were kids, watching cartoons that sampled it as Auguste sang along. Auguste has sung this aria his entire life.

Auguste continues, and it’s a masterclass performance. The rest of the panel would have to be fools not to cast him, especially in this role. Do they honestly think they’re going to find someone better than _Auguste DeVere?_

But then, Auguste gets to the final _Ah, bravo Figaro_ verse, ridiculously quick, and stumbles. Laurent’s pen stills mid-stroke. He looks up, horrified. Auguste, the professional he is, just keeps going as if nothing happened. He gets back on track, but when he gets to the final _della città_ trio, which ends the song, he runs out of breath and doesn’t do the penultimate one. He gives his all, putting his entire body into it, gestures and facial expressions and everything, and nails the ending—enthusiastic applause from the room.

Still, Auguste messed up. _Auguste messed up._ His pitch was questionable at the last performance, now making rookie mistakes on a piece he’s done for over a decade. Laurent doesn’t know how to reconcile it. He tries not to make himself worry, though, because nobody else has even come close (they’ve only had one person, earlier, attempt, and they paled in comparison), and there’s only one more person to go.

One of the production directors for the upcoming season says, “Thank you, Auguste. Can you send in the final person? And we’ll be in touch.”

Auguste bows. “Yes, of course. Have a nice day.”

Laurent notices, out of the corner of his eye, some of the other panel members looking at him but are trying not to make it visible. Damn. They saw how Laurent reacted to Auguste’s flub.

He is looking down, writing, when the next and final person walks in and starts talking with the pianist. Laurent and the rest of the panelists greet him, Laurent still absorbed in his writing. It’s not until the man speaks that Laurent looks up.

“Good afternoon,” Damianos—because of course, Laurent recognizes him—says, and with a nod to Laurent finishes, _“maestro._ My name is Damianos Akielos. Today, I have prepared for you ‘Kto mozhet sravnit'sja s Matil'doj moej’ from Tchaikovsky’s _Iolanta.”_ His Russian is flawless, already ahead of the game from some sad attempts this morning.

Ah, so he’s baiting the panel with arias adjacent to those in the upcoming season. Tchaikovsky for a Tchaikovsky, Robert for Onegin. Gauche, but ultimately effective. This aria is almost as hard as ‘Largo,’ not with speed but with pitch and strength. Damianos doesn’t seem to be too cocky, but he has to be pretty damn confident in himself to bring this to an audition, not to mention start with it.

Damianos’ voice can only be described with one word: breathtaking. The aria begins on a high, powerful, sustained note and doesn’t let up from there. He sings of a lover, how not a single person can compare to her, and it’s so genuine that he must be thinking of a real person. Every note, every expression, every movement explodes with joy.

Laurent can’t tear his eyes away. His jaw has dropped, ever so slightly.

By the time Damianos finishes, going somehow up in pitch even more at the high point of the piece, Laurent is half in love with him; his cheeks burn, he crosses his legs and remembers how much thinking about Damianos turned him on. He hasn’t written a single note this entire time, awe-struck.

Perfection.

Laurent scratches something down about range and accent, confidence, but maybe too warm for Onegin (just to be petty, because how dare he outshine Auguste).

“Thank you, Mr. Akielos,” Laurent says, trying to regain a semblance of control. “Give us a moment while we go through your prepared pieces.”

He and the other panelists flip through, deliberating. (Laurent is allowed since it isn’t Auguste.) Unsurprisingly, he has at least one aria from each of the roles he wants, just in case, but he also has more “adjacents.” For some reason, this pisses Laurent off. It’s so calculated, so confident. He’s never even had an understudy part in this company, let alone a lead, and he’s acting like he owns the place and expects the panelists to fawn over him with his pieces.

Which, to be fair has already happened.

It would be easy to have him do _Billy Budd,_ but Laurent doesn’t want to hear if Damianos can nail it. He doesn’t know if he can handle it if Damianos could sing it perfectly as he did _Iolanta._ Luckily, he has a few more English language arias, including a few Brittens. _The Rape of Lucretia? That’s interesting,_ Laurent muses. And fortunately, the rest of the panel agrees with that choice.

“Alright, please do ‘Within this frail crucible of light’ for us next.” Damianos has probably guessed he’s in the running for _Billy Budd_ with the request because Laurent sees him smile, just enough, so there’s a dimple punctuating his left cheek.

“Yes, _maestro,”_ he says, looking right at Laurent. He’s not looking at him in any particular way, but regardless, Laurent’s pulse quickens at the honorific.

A key feature of Britten’s music is how he experiments with atonality, yet still writes heartbreakingly lyrical arias. Laurent loves this. It’s as close as he’s willing to get to the edge of something experimental and overly-modern without worrying he might alienate his audience. If the Met has done it, it’s probably safe for Arles. _Billy Budd_ mixes maritime music with this hint of atonality, and then Billy sings ‘Look! Through the port comes the moon-shine astray’, a baritone aria so beautiful it’s rare for someone not to have it prepared for an audition.

But this aria from _The Rape of Lucretia_ takes whatever lyrical beauty Britten wrote and perverts it. As Damianos is proving, it sounds gorgeous and intense, lovelorn, and yearning. Yet he sings of stealing a kiss, Lucretia’s chastity, while she sleeps, and after she wakes, he rapes her. Damianos, with his velvet voice, beautifies the taboo. He clearly isn’t afraid of taking on roles with a darker subject matter. And it’s also quite obvious he sings Britten like he was born for it, navigating the nontraditional melody lines and chord progressions with practiced ease.

Laurent gasps, so small and quiet he’s sure nobody else can see or hear it, and curls his toes; when Damianos soars into _Loveliness like this is never chaste,_ his voice penetrates Laurent’s very being. It’s quite common to compare arias to sex, especially the _bel canto_ soprano ones, building up and climaxing to one sustained note. Hearing Damianos reach this peak and come down until he’s _sotto voce_ in a soft upper register makes Laurent catch on fire. He sits there, thoroughly ravished by Damianos’ voice.

He doesn’t clap when the rest of the panel does, not immediately, still in pleasurable shock.

The panel doesn’t even consult him before they’re requesting ‘Largo al factotum,’ its necessity as evident as it had been with Auguste. Laurent hopes it’s not as good as Auguste. He’s not sure how much of this he can take and doesn’t want to add disappointment to the mix, this audition already blowing Auguste out of the water.

Damianos begins much the same way Auguste had, nailing the tongue-twisting phrase endings and rhythms. His acting is good, really good, not singing _at_ the panelists but treating them like the customers Figaro encounters, interacting with them, making it _personal._ Instead of a cocky yet lovable braggart, his Figaro is warm, joyous, sinfully charming without being sleazy. All of the panelists smile, even Laurent, despite his rising horror and anger. A few times, he even _laughs,_ Damianos’ happiness infectious.

And, _fuck,_ he sings the final verse as perfectly as Laurent has ever heard it.

Laurent makes a point of taking more time than the other panelists to finish his notes. “Thank you, Mr. Akielos,” he says, arrogant without being obvious. “We’ll be in touch.”

* * *

The waiting is always the worst part. Laurent hasn’t had to audition for anything in years, but since he’s not allowed to make the casting decisions if Auguste auditions, he has to wait along with everyone else. He has to approve the final roster, of course, but he’s never _not_ agreed with the list given to him.

Laurent has also never been this nervous while waiting. It’s always such a sure thing Auguste will get the parts he wants. Damianos has flipped the entire world upside down.

He spends long nights at home on his piano, studying scores and listening to and watching whatever recordings he can find. It’s a crowd-pleasing season with nothing out of left field, so there are multiples of each. Laurent compares Callas’ Rosina to DiDonato’s, Keenlyside’s Billy Budd to Imbrailo’s. He makes note of tempos, what he likes and doesn’t like. He and the various directors meet to discuss the productions, what moods and themes they’re highlighting with each, and Laurent goes home and plays with libretti to see how he can mold and shape the music to fit.

It’s his favorite part of the entire process, aside from opening night. He gets to have the music to himself, just for a little while, before the singers and his orchestra take it over, and he has to guide them like a father. There’s only so much control he can keep.

Auguste hasn’t contacted him since the audition. Laurent suspects he does that to keep anything from getting skewed in the process. Laurent just wants to ask him how he is, if there’s anything wrong, try to figure out what could make him falter.

There weren’t many basses that auditioned, and bass-baritones could easily play a lot of the bass parts. Maybe Auguste will get some of those. He could see Auguste being a great Claudio in _Agrippina._

Laurent doesn’t think about the fact he has, for all intents and purposes, already accepted that Damianos will get most of the baritone parts over Auguste.

So when, after a week of deliberation, it’s time to have the meeting with the rest of the casting panel, he doesn’t so much as blanch when he sees how right he was. Auguste has secured the baritone in _Madama Butterfly,_ Il Commendatore in _Don Giovanni,_ yep, Claudio in _Agrippina,_ and Figaro in _Le nozze di Figaro._

He gets nothing in _Billy Budd, Eugene Onegin,_ or _Il barbiere di Siviglia._

Damianos doesn’t get any parts in _Madama Butterfly_ or _Agrippina_ but does get Count Almaviva in _Le nozze di Figaro_ and Figaro in _Il barbiere di Siviglia_ (Laurent’s heart shudders and breaks when he sees). He also secures—to Laurent’s resigned anguish—the titular leads in _Don Giovanni, Eugene Onegin,_ and _Billy Budd._

At least he won’t have to watch the two of them interact on stage for those big three Auguste isn’t in.

And it will be deliciously satisfying, he thinks, to watch Auguste triumphantly drag Damianos’ Don Giovanni down to the fiery pits of hell.

The casting panel is silent as Laurent reads it over. He assumes they are giving him space to process their decisions, not just because they are taking a considerable risk on casting Damianos in so many lead parts, but because he got cast over Auguste. Laurent hates that they think he needs this. He started processing this reality as soon as Damianos sang his first note in auditions.

“I’m a little worried Auguste won’t be able to get low enough for Il Commendatore,” Laurent starts, “so that’s a tentative yes until I’m sure he can, in rehearsal.” He puts the list down and takes a sip of tea. “As for Damianos Akielos, from our pool, he’s the obvious choice for Billy Budd and Eugene Onegin. We’ll see how he does in _Barber,_ but I’m confident Auguste could fill that role if Damianos doesn’t work out.” When Laurent doesn’t show any external signs of distress, the relief in the room is palpable.

“Alright, now let’s get through the rest of the voice types.”

* * *

With everyone cast, rehearsals can begin. Laurent works with his orchestra on _Don Giovanni_ first, since that’s the first opera of the season, but he slips in _Agrippina_ once a week to get everyone used to the Baroque style and playing with the harpsichord. _Don Giovanni_ is such a staple that many of the players have been in its pit before, so it’s not hard to get everyone to a pretty solid footing with the opera within a few weeks.

Laurent also starts meeting with leads individually to work on arias and important recitatives. The group work can wait; he and the named characters must establish a working relationship. He needs to know their strengths, weaknesses, how best to cue them, and how well they follow a tempo. Usually, he would insist he works with the soprano first, as she would have the hardest arias in the piece (he worked with his Queen of the Night for hundreds of hours last season). Countertenors and contraltos, or any nonstandard or uncommon voice types, also take more work than usual. Countertenors can vary so much in tone that it is essential to make sure they mesh well with the orchestration.

Instead of having a standard soprano as the leading role, _Don Giovanni_ has the hedonist himself, a rare opera with a baritone lead instead of a tenor. Which, unfortunately, means Laurent starts working with Damianos right away.

He shows up ten minutes early, while Laurent is still preparing, making sure the piano is in tune and warming up his fingers.

“Sorry, is it alright that I’m early? I can wait outside if you want.” Damianos is wearing pitch-black jeans and a burgundy Henley. Comfortable, not formal, but not stumbling in in his leisure clothes. He’s taking it seriously. Laurent would feel much better about hating him if he weren’t so goddamn decent, respectful without being uptight.

Laurent stops playing. “No, you’re fine, Mr. Akielos. I’m not ready yet, but I don’t have a problem with you warming up. It won’t distract me.” And with that goes back to running through some problematic lines. He was never a pianist primarily, only learning enough to accompany with a bare-bones skeleton of a piece. When he was younger, Laurent played viola, and then the orchestra became his instrument. He’s double-checking some tricky tempos while Damianos does some basic vocal exercises. Laurent assumes he did more before coming.

Regardless of how well-prepared Damianos is, and disregarding that Laurent doesn’t need to do any more warming up or prep, he makes Damianos wait the full ten minutes.

“Alright, we good to start?” Laurent asks. When Damianos answers him, he says, “Excellent. Let’s get one run-through out of the way, to keep your voice ready, and then we can get to know each other. Sound good?”

“Yes, _maestro.”_

“Please, Damianos,” he swallows, “just call me Laurent. You already got the part. No need to kiss my ass.” He would generally insist on the formality this early on. Still, the way Damianos says _maestro,_ how his tongue curls around that _str_ consonant cluster, how his lips shape the vowels, his fucking _voice,_ is going to drive Laurent mad if he has to hear it over and over and over and over…

Damianos chuckles a bit. “Certainly can’t hurt, though.” He shoots Laurent a friendly smile. “Laurent. That means you have to call me Damen, though.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Laurent thinks and has the briefest thought of how sensual his name sounds when said by Damen. It isn’t possible that someone could be this charming while still being so sickeningly laid back and innocent. There’s got to be some flaw in his character, some arrogance or crudeness; Laurent prays that Damen is as licentious and awful as Don Giovanni, just to spare himself the yearning, aching heat already blooming throughout his entire body.

“Right. Okay, Damen,” he says after probably too long of a silence, “shall we start with ‘Deh, vieni alla finestra’? Just to give me a sense of what I’m working with.” Laurent wishes it made sense to start with another aria, something that wasn’t one of the most seductive, sexy pieces in all of opera. Still, Don Giovanni’s only other solo aria is the Champagne Aria. Laurent wants to hear how Damen can interpret phrases to suit the libretto and acting, not just show annunciation or speed. Laurent already knows how good Damen is at that. “And if you could do it with all the acting and everything that would help.”

He nods and sets his score on a music stand. Laurent plays the simple mandolin melody on the piano for a few measures.

 _“Deh, vieni alla finestra,”_ Damen sings, _“o mio tesoro.”_ _Oh, come to the window, beloved._ The _deh_ is a pickup into _vieni._ Instead of just telling the beloved to come to the window, Don Giovanni softly begs her. Typically, there would be no need to emphasize that: Don Giovanni is, after all, Don Giovanni, and the singer should show that confidence. But as he continues, and especially as he goes into the second verse, he acts out an interpretation Laurent has never seen.

Damen makes Don Giovanni vulnerable. The weight of his wickedness, the emptiness of his lust, has broken him open, and the fear that comes with begins to consume him. Of his solo arias, he only sings one _as himself._ The others are him pretending to be someone else (including this one), so Mozart denies us his internal character.

And Damen has cracked this aria open for all the world to see.

 _“Non esser, gioia mia, con me crudele!”_ He changes to a more spoken timbre at the end of the line, and his voice trembles as he concludes, _“Lasciati almen veder, mio bell’amore.” Then be not cruel with me, my joy. At least let yourself be seen, my beautiful love._

Laurent finishes the accompaniment and looks at him. It’s the best “Deh, vieni” he’s ever seen or heard.

Bastard.

“Good,” he says. “I like the interpretation. Have you spoken with the director about it?” Damen nods. Laurent stands and moves next to him so they can share a score. “Alright, let’s work on phrasing. You’re putting too much stress on some unimportant syllables.”

They work through the first verse, word by word. “You’re pushing a bit too hard on the ‘ee’ in _mio.”_ Laurent sings the line the way Damen did. “It needs to be lighter, like this.” After a few tries, Laurent is satisfied. “Good, very good. Make sure you don’t let it slip back. I noticed you did it in the final line as well, even stronger. Okay, next line.”

Although Damen’s voice wraps around Laurent like velvet, the pedantic repetition starts to take any eroticism out of the words, and he can finally focus on his job instead of his self-control. Damen is a quick learner, even if it takes a few tries to start to break whatever bad habit Laurent finds. Damen, he is learning, is sometimes _too_ emotive for the piece, not allowing the music to speak for itself.

“Alright, next verse. Let the breathiness of _ch’hai_ come through, like a sigh—”

“Wouldn’t it be too much to do that there? It’s just ‘who have,’” Damen says. “It doesn’t feel like that warrants such a melodramatic reading.”

Laurent takes a breath to collect himself. “If you would have let me finish,” he says tersely, “I was going to say that you don’t want to overdo it.” He looks Damen in the eyes.

“And then I’ll let the sigh finish with _dolce.”_

“Yes, but—”

 _“Tu ch’hai la bocca dolce,”_ Damen sings, demonstrating, _“più del miele.”_

 _You, who have a mouth sweeter than honey._ Laurent’s pulse pounds in his temples. He would be lost in Damen’s honey-voiced lyrics if he weren’t getting so frustrated. “Now you’re pushing _più._ You need to—”

“Oh, okay, I think I understand.” He sings the line, corrected.

“Damen,” Laurent snaps. “Stop. For a second.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Before we go further, let me make something very clear. You’re one of the best baritones I’ve ever heard. Yes, including my brother, who you got this role over. That’s saying something. But you need to understand something. I know you have ideas about the role and how you’ll interpret it, and we can work on that together, but at the end of the day,” he says, standing up straight and looking Damen head-on, “I am the music director of this company. Not you. And when I give you instructions, you don’t interrupt me. You don’t argue with me. You don’t act like you know better than me. You can respectfully give me your opinion, but you do not mow mine down, especially without letting me finish a complete thought.”

“Have you ever played this role?” Damen asks after a brief pause.

“No. I’m not a singer.”

“And it’s obvious.”

“I’m sorry,” Laurent says, “but what did you just say to me?”

Damen squares up, the height and bulk he has over Laurent readily apparent. “I said that I have been in this role many, many times. Not you. You might be a music director, but that doesn’t make you a singer or an actor. And if I disagree with you, I will not hesitate to let you know.”

The anger bubbles in Laurent’s gut, the pressure building behind his eyes. “I think we’re done for the day,” he says, voice clipped. “And when you come back tomorrow, I expect it to be perfect since you’re such an expert.” He sits back at the piano and puts his score away, looking for the piece he’ll work on with the next person. “Now, get out of my rehearsal room.”

* * *

_“Madamina,”_ the bass playing Leporello, Nikandros Delfeur, begins, _“il catalogo e’ questo.”_

Laurent guides the singer and the musicians through the famous Catalog Aria, where Don Giovanni’s servant explains to Donna Elvira how many women Don Giovanni has slept with by country. It’s darkly funny, the numbers so high to the point of being ridiculous. Laurent smiles, watching the scene unfold in front of him. His conducting motions are short and choppy so that the strings might be the same.

Nikandros finishes the aria, _“Voi sapete quel che fa.”_

“Alright,” Laurent says when he’s done. “Nikandros, that’s the best one you’ve done yet. Let’s run through it a few more times, and then let’s do the entire act. Everyone, make sure you’re back in ten minutes. I _will_ start without you.” Jord, his concertmaster, rolls his eyes at him while the rest of the orchestra laughs.

He takes a few minutes to flip through the score, double- and triple-checking his notes. Opening night is at the end of the week, and he needs everything to be perfect. If the company is going to risk casting an outsider instead of Auguste, then Laurent cannot let things go badly. Damen has already been a bit off this week, and it’s making Laurent nervous. He looks at his watch and sees he has a few minutes left of break, so he grabs his water bottle and heads to the refill fountain backstage.

“Damen, you have got to get over her!” a voice says in the shadows. It sounds like—

“Nik, I know,” Damen’s familiar voice retorts. “Just give me some time, okay?”

Laurent stills and dares not make a noise. Maybe this explains why Damen interprets the Don as so vulnerable, and why he’s been so irritable during rehearsals.

“You’ve had time,” Nikandros says.

Damen scoffs. “Yeah, a few weeks. Jokaste and I were engaged. That’s not just something I brush off in a week or two.”

“You’ve sure managed to fuck your way through Arles in that time.” Nikandros’ voice is accusing, like a parent getting onto their child. “Erasmus texted me yesterday, you know.”

Silence. Then, “What did he say?”

“All he wanted to know was how you were. ‘Please don’t tell him I asked.’ Damen, he’s so young. You can’t do this to people. These twinks you take home fall head over ass for you, and then you just throw them away.”

“I know,” Damen groans. “I know.”

“She’s not coming back, man. And why would you want her back after what she did?”

At that moment, Jord interrupts Laurent’s snooping. “There you are. I need to ask you something.”

Damen and Nikandros go quiet.

Laurent fills his bottle, cursing Jord’s timing. “What is it?”

Jord asks his question, something about a tricky time signature. Laurent starts to walk back to the pit, Jord following behind him when he runs into Damen. He looks at Laurent, startled, and then resigned. _“Maestro,”_ he says, tone sharp. He must have realized Laurent overheard everything. Laurent continues walking away.

* * *

Laurent loves opening nights. Of course, he’s nervous, sure, but by the time this moment comes around, he has rehearsed the cast and orchestra repeatedly until there’s no way anything could go wrong. Things can and have gone wrong, even with all the practice, but even forgotten lines and loss of breath are things he can prepare his singers for. Damen had snapped out of whatever funk he was and gave Laurent stellar performances in dress rehearsal. Auguste proved to be a fantastic Commendatore, and that big scene was sure to bring the house down.

“You look so goofy with that makeup,” Laurent says to Auguste in his dressing room.

Auguste is painted gray to look like a crumbling statue brought to life. He makes eye contact with Laurent in the mirror, a soft smile on his face. “You know,” he says after a few moments, and his voice betrays whatever bittersweet feelings he’s having, “I thought I wouldn’t have to do this role for another ten years or so.”

“I know,” Laurent says. He raises from the doorframe where he had been leaning and comes to sit on the dressing table. He swings his feet like he’s a kid again. “What…what happened, Auguste?”

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” he says. “Just stress, I think. Amèlie and I are trying for a baby, and she had to go to the ob-gyn that day during my audition time. She said she’d never let me see the baby if I sacrificed an audition for a doctor’s visit.” He shrugs.

“I’m guessing still no luck since you haven’t told me anything.”

Auguste shakes his head. “Damen’s good,” he says, changing the subject.

Laurent leans his head back against the mirror and stares up at the lights. “I know.”

“He’s better than me.”

The admission startles Laurent, and he whips his head to stare at Auguste.

“It’s true, Lau. You see how he plays the Don. It’s groundbreaking.”

Laurent scoffs. “And yours weren’t?”

“You know it’s never been my favorite role. I’m having a much better time with Il Commendatore and _Butterfly_ coming up.” He stands and drinks some hot tea with honey and lemon. “Now scram, I need to do exercises. And don’t you have an orchestra to lead, _maestro?”_

“You don’t even sing until the end!” He rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll go. Sorry for trying to talk to my brother.” Auguste smiles at him. “I know.”

Auguste quirks his head. “Know what?”

His voice strained, Laurent admits, “He is better than you.”

They look at each other. His chest tightens, and something changes between him and his brother. It breaks Laurent’s heart.

Laurent leaves Auguste and goes to join his orchestra. The audience claps for him when he walks into the pit. It’s a full house. He looks around the theater, from the orchestra level seats all the way up to the family circle. Pride swells in Laurent’s chest. He turns back to the musicians, holds his hands and baton up, and takes a quick breath right before the pit plays the opening note of the _Don Giovanni_ Overture, thundering and reverberating through Laurent’s body and the room.

The curtain opens, and the performance begins. It goes off without a hitch. Nikandros gets many laughs and approving applause from the audience after the Catalog Aria. The production is a modern one, and all the singers on stage cut striking figures in their costumes and makeup, Damen in particular. Unfortunately. And he is _nailing_ it. His stage presence has gone through the roof with an actual audience to witness him. Laurent swears Damen is trying to seduce everyone in the crowd (and the cast). Everything he does works. The risk, to Laurent’s relief, is paying off tenfold.

Until it gets to Don Giovanni’s Champagne Aria, ‘Fin ch’han dal vino.’ This aria is the only one the Don sings as himself, and fittingly, the subject matter is shallow and not about the Don at all. He commands Leporello to prepare a feast, singing at a breakneck speed. Laurent and Damen spent hours upon hours getting the tone and interpretation of this one down.

Damen falls back into some of the stresses and phrasing Laurent told him not to do. He shoots a glare on stage when Damen next makes eye contact with him, and his blood boils when all Damen does is wink at him. Laurent wants to tear him a new one, but that will have to wait until after the final bows, as Damen will need every second of the intermission to rest and prepare.

Laurent is less mad when, in Act II, Damen sings ‘Deh, vieni alla finestra.’ The two of them had a lot of back and forth on this one, butting heads but ultimately arriving at the same interpretation; Laurent, occasionally, admitted that Damen’s was the superior one. The hard work pays off. Instead of a traditional window seduction, the director staged this scene to have the Don alone on stage, highlighting the existential interpretation of the aria. The beloved never does come to the window. Damen slowly slides down the back wall of the set at the second verse, looking up into the darkness. On _mio bell’amore,_ Damen closes his eyes, and Laurent is close enough to see a tear spill over. Laurent lets out a breath he did not realize he was holding when he finishes, and the audience erupts into applause.

Finally, the moment the entire crowd has been waiting for arrives: the statue of Il Commendatore comes to dine with Don Giovanni, and Don Giovanni gets dragged into hell.

There’s a gasp when Auguste is revealed and the orchestra plays the infamous opening notes. _“Don Giovanni,”_ he sings, commanding and accusing, _“a cenar teco.”_ Laurent can see how much fun Auguste is having. The crowd hangs on Auguste’s every word. And to say that the tension between Damen and Auguste is palpable would be an understatement. The trio—Auguste, Damen, and Nikandros—continue the scene, their phrasing and tempos crashing to convey the horrified, manic atmosphere. It’s incredible.

And then, Damen does something that makes Laurent see red.

 _He starts speaking some of his lines._ He still projects them, his rich baritone throwing them to the back of the theater, but instead of the Don’s horrified yet proud melodies, Damen scoffs and taunts Auguste’s Commendatore. He’s hysterical on stage, playing the Don as gleefully giving up, relieved to be chastised and sent to his death. Laurent cannot fault him the acting; the laugh when he goes into the flames chills him to the bone.

But he spoke his lines, and Laurent is going to kill him.

He can hardly concentrate the rest of the finale. Then, it’s over. The cast starts their bows. Auguste comes out, and Laurent claps extra hard for him. Damen, finally, stands in the center of the stage, and the crowd goes wild, all surging to their feet. He puts a hand on his heart, looking genuinely touched and humbled at the reaction.

Damen is the one who brings Laurent on stage for the final bow. This requires Damen to hold his hand. Which means they’re touching. Laurent’s blood is still boiling, but standing on stage, hand-in-hand with Damen, grounds him in a way he has never experienced, and it horrifies him.

After the curtain closes, Laurent follows Damen back to his dressing room, furious.

“Who is—” Damen says when Laurent stops him from closing the door, making his presence known.

 _“What the fuck is your problem,”_ Laurents spits, crowding Damen into the room.

He looks confused. “What are you talking about?” He sits at his dressing table and begins to remove the thick stage makeup.

“When did I _ever_ say it was okay for you to _speak your lines?!”_

Damen makes eye contact with him in the mirror. “It was an acting decision.” He throws the used makeup wipe in the small trash can under the table. “It worked, right? I didn’t throw the tempo off. I got a standing ovation. So what exactly is the problem?”

Laurent stares daggers at him. “What. Exactly. Is. My. _Problem?”_ He starts walking closer. “My _problem_ is you haven’t even made a _name_ for yourself yet, _especially_ not under _my_ direction, and yet you think it’s okay to _do whatever the fuck you want?_ Like _you_ know best? _Who the fuck do you even think you are?”_

“Who the fuck do I think I am? I’m the person who came into your audition room and _rendered you speechless, that’s who.”_ Damen unbuttons the outer layer of his costume, saying, “I’m not some young kid who’s just tasting stardom. You saw my previous roles. I’ve been doing this _longer than you have, sweetheart.”_

“Excuse me?”

“So just because I got the part over your brother and don’t do it exactly how you’ve seen him do it doesn’t mean you can treat me like shit. You can’t take revenge on me just because you know I’m better than hi—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because Laurent slaps him so hard it makes his hand sting.

Damen touches his fingers to his lips as he rights himself, and they come away with blood on them. He eventually, slowly, looks back up at Laurent, meeting his murderous gaze with his own.

Laurent fists his hands in Damen’s hair and, surging forward, brings their lips together so forcefully it hurts. He tastes blood, not sure if it’s Damen’s, or if it’s his own.

In the next moment, he’s gasping, Damen shoving him against the nearest hard surface, hands grabbing his hips so tight he knows he’ll bruise. There is nothing beautiful or tender about how they crash their bodies into each other, kissing and biting each other like their mouths are weapons. Damen’s arousal grinds into Laurent’s hip, pressing into his stomach and against his own burgeoning hardness. He fumbles, clumsily unbuttoning Damen’s pants and pulling his underwear down enough to free him. Damen does the same to him and teases at his foreskin, running his fingers over Laurent’s cock until he’s twitching, but Laurent never gives him the satisfaction of a whine. Laurent grabs Damen’s dick in a possessive fist, reminding him who controls him, who owns him.

Their motions are frantic, the slick noise of skin moving over sweaty skin the loudest in the room. Laurent refuses to moan, and any sound he has heard Damen make is just growls and groans against his mouth and neck. Laurent’s breath catches when Damen bends down and bites one of his nipples, at the same moment wrapping his large hand around both their cocks. Laurent grabs Damen’s thick curls for dear life as Damen pumps his fist, tight and fast. Laurent thrusts up, dizzy at the sensation of his cock massaging against Damen’s.

Damen groans into his mouth when he comes. Laurent twitches when it runs over his skin, warm and slick. It jolts him back to the present moment, bringing him out of whatever lust-addled insanity possessed him. He looks at Damen, who is still catching his breath, eyes screwed shut. Damen angles his head forward, gentle, nosing at Laurent, thrusting lazily against him as the aftershocks surge through him.

It’s all too much, too sweet, but this isn’t supposed to be sweet. Laurent turns his head away, denying Damen his mouth. He hears his own beating heart in his ears. He feels too intensely how Damen mouths at his jaw and how Damen strokes him slowly.

Sweet. Tender. Gentle.

Laurent feels like he’s leaving his own body like it isn’t his anymore. He can’t—

“Stop,” he bites out.

Damen does but doesn’t let go of him.

“Down.” Laurent turns back to Damen and meets his gaze. “On your knees.”

Damen searches his face like he’s trying to solve some puzzle. He looks down where they’re touching, and smirks like he’s solved the puzzle. “You just can’t let go, can you?”

“What the fuck do you care,” Laurent says, clenching his jaw. “Seems to me this is the only way you know how to put your mouth to good use. Won’t sing as I tell you to, but I hear you’ve fucked half the city.”

Damen drops to the floor, grabs Laurent’s ass in one hand, his cock in the other, and takes Laurent into his mouth with no preamble, teasing, or foreplay.

“Tell me, do they all look like her?” Laurent accuses, rolling his hips against Damen, hands clawing at the wall. Damen sucks him, swallows around him, quickly and efficiently, no part of this enjoyable except for the inevitable orgasm. Laurent can already feel it boiling inside him. “Do _I_ look like her?” Damen glares up at him, with Laurent still in his mouth.

And there’s something about the way Damen looks with his lips wrapped around his cock, cheeks hollowed and eyes glassy—defiled and ruined—that drags Laurent over the edge.

Damen pulls off and starts to say, “You don’t know how to fucking shut up, do y—” but Laurent shooting onto his face and into his open mouth interrupts him. It’s obscene.

Laurent tucks himself back into his pants; he’ll clean himself in a bathroom. “Adequate.” He walks to the door. Before he walks out, he looks back at Damen, who is wiping his face off with an undershirt.

“If you pull this shit again, I’ll recast your ass so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Damen smirks. “With who.”

Laurent blinks.

“Fuck you,” he says and slams the door behind him.

* * *

The next day, Laurent finds several reviews of the show. For the most part, all positive feedback. One old guard reviewer found the production “overly post-modern,” but otherwise, critics praised the interpretation, citing the nuanced interpretation of the Don’s internal struggles as refreshing and exciting. “Deeply moving,” one said, “I’ve never cried during _Don Giovanni_ before.” The same reviewer also praised Laurent’s conducting and interpretation of the score, saying that it perfectly supported the action on stage and that the big moments were, quote, “quite thrilling.” He allows himself to preen at that.

Another review mentions the surprising casting. Laurent braces himself for whatever scathing commentary this person has, only to find that the critic enjoyed the shakeup. “Baritone Auguste DeVere, brother of conductor Laurent DeVere, takes a backseat to newer, fresher talent. Those of us in Arles are quite familiar with Mr. DeVere, as it is rare to find a production without him as the primary baritone. However, his turn as the bass Il Commendatore (what an amazing range he has!) pleasantly surprised me; the authority he brings with years of experience created quite the metanarrative as he chastised and condemned rising star Damianos Akielos’ (formerly of the Ios Lyric Opera) Don Giovanni. 

“And what a performance from Mr. Akielos!” the reviewer continues. “I have read reviews of his performances before, and he met my expectations and then some. Although his phrasing did not quite mesh well with the orchestration at times—” Laurent smiles, vindicated, “—overall, the voice was on point. I sat in my seat, mesmerized and horrified when he quite literally spoke some of the lyrics during the climax. I think perhaps that was _not_ done in rehearsals or discussed beforehand because DeVere and bass Nikandros seemed not quite to come in when they were supposed to—I assume because the texture of the trio was wrong. If the change gets to stay, I’m sure that can be corrected. But the choice was an incredible one, and I look forward to what Akielos does next.”

 _Holy shit, they liked what Damen did,_ Laurent thinks as he reads more reviews and each praises the decision (aside from the grumpy old guard reviewer).

Laurent is not so proud as to not admit when he is wrong, but damn does this sting. His thoughts drift to what happened between him and Damen, what Laurent initiated. The question _Would I have done that if I hadn’t been so upset_ wracks his brain. His skin crawls because he honestly does not know. He does not know if he regrets it, either. Laurent never allows himself to let go like that. None of his previous relationships or hookups ever quite felt like that, even though Laurent had been out of his mind with anger. Kisses had never left such fire in their wake. Orgasms had never left him so ecstatic and breathless. When he got home, the feeling of Damen’s warm, wet mouth around his cock tormented him and made him toss and turn in bed.

What is worse is remembering that moment of softness after Damen came, and how thoroughly it pierced Laurent like a blade in his heart. Thoughts of what it would be like, how good it would be, if he gave himself this, flashed through his mind until sleep finally took him. But that isn’t entirely true.

Those thoughts haven’t stopped.

Laurent sends an email to Auguste, Damen, and Nikandros, asking if they can come to the theater early for an emergency rehearsal to go over that scene.

He also calls Damen as soon as the three performers say they can make it. Damen picks up after the first ring. “Hi, this is Damen.”

Laurent closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Hi, Damen. This is Laurent. Do you have a moment?” His heart races, waiting for the response.

“Sure. What is it?” Damen doesn’t have the warmth in his voice he usually has.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the reviews.”

“Ah, so you’re calling to apologize,” he says. “I thought you’d be too stubborn.”

“I’m not happy about it, but I’m also not an idiot. I care more about the success of the show than my pride. No need to gloat any further.”

“Oh, about what? I’m not quite sure I know what I’m supposed to be gloating about.”

Laurent wishes he could slap him again. “You were right.”

“About what.”

“About speaking the lines.”

“And?”

“And,” Laurent says through clenched teeth, “I was wrong.”

“I’ll try not to demand you kiss my ass in rehearsal. Although, after last night—”

_“Don’t you dare bring that up.”_

Laurent prepares for whatever argument they’re about to have, but instead, all Damen says is, “I’ll do my phrasing differently in the Champagne aria. See you in a few.”

The line goes dead.

* * *

The rest of the _Don Giovanni_ performances are perfect. Finally, they finish, and Laurent can give his full attention to _Madama Butterfly._ He has been working with the soprano for weeks, and he cannot wait to see it all start coming together. Despite his boredom with _bel canto,_ Laurent has always loved Puccini (who gets a pass, as he moved more to the _verismo_ style later in his career).

The best part, though, is that Auguste is in _Madama Butterfly_ , and Damen isn’t. _Agrippina_ is next, so they meet less frequently to work on arias for _Billy Budd_ and onwards.

Still, ever since that night in Damen’s dressing room, Laurent has been a frustrated mess. The very sight of him drives him mad. Damen has not mentioned what happened between them, and Laurent is very thankful for that. They keep the rehearsals professional and impersonal—only snapping at each other once or twice per session—but he cannot help but think about it, cannot help but feel the palpable awkward tension between them.

He cannot miss the way Damen looks at him.

“You need to work on your stammer,” Laurent says one morning while working on _Billy Budd._ “I’ve seen some terrible productions where the baritone overdoes it. I know you have somewhat of a talent for that. But that is something I refuse to be flexible about.”

To Laurent’s surprise, Damen agrees with him, but he undermines any goodwill he just earned with a barbed response. “How would you suggest we do it, _maestro.”_

“Well, I’m not the singer, am I.” If Damen is going to be difficult, so will Laurent.

Damen stares at him, lips pursed.

_Those soft, full lips pressed against his own, taking Laurent’s bottom lip between his teeth before moving to a spot right below his ear, making Laurent’s eyes flutter shut—_

“How do you expect me to do it if you don’t give me music,” Damen says, snapping Laurent out of his reverie.

Without a word, Laurent gives Damen a lead-in on the piano, going through the phrase again and again until they’ve reached an acceptable stopping point.

“You did good work today, Damen.”

He looks at Laurent, brows furrowed. He hesitates, then says, “Thank you, Laurent.”

Laurent closes his eyes and swallows. He stands up and grabs his sheet music from the piano; he’s meeting Auguste for lunch downtown. He starts walking away, but Damen grabs his wrist to stop him. Laurent looks down to where Damen rubs his thumb across the sensitive skin of Laurent’s inner wrist. His breath hitches, the intimate touch causing the hairs on his arm to stand. He meets Damen’s gaze, unflinching, but knows that the racing pulse Damen can surely feel betrays whatever icy front he’s trying to put on.

He pulls his wrist away harder than he needs to, for Damen’s grip on him was loose and gentle, and says, low and threatening, “Don’t you ever touch me again.” But Laurent lingers, grabbing his wrist and rubbing it just the way Damen had done, refusing to look at him until, finally, he does.

“Laurent, I—” Damen says, tentative and husky.

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Laurent looks away. “It was a mistake. I was angry. Everything was so intense. Spur of the moment.”

“Do you make a habit of fucking people when you’re mad at them?”

“It didn’t mean anything.”

Damen rolls his eyes. “I refuse to believe you’re the type of person who would fuck someone and it not mean anything.”

“You don’t know me!” Laurent’s raised voice echoes in the silence between them.

Then, Damen says, softer, “What are you so afraid of?”

Laurent moves his eyes back to Damen’s. “Damen. Please…” They stand in silence, Damen’s gaze penetrating him and seeing every weak point. Laurent backs away, as if fighting a magnetic pull, and leaves Damen standing alone, just about to speak.

* * *

The opening night of _Madama Butterfly_ is in a few days. Laurent is confident in this production, though that confidence brings a small degree of apathy with it. He loves this opera, but they’re doing a very traditional production (except that Laurent insisted on a Japanese soprano). It’s one he’s done a million times, and he’s sure he’ll do it a million more.

At least it’s one less thing to worry about.

Auguste called him this morning and told him the good news that Amèlie was pregnant, but it shouldn’t affect the rest of the season. The three of them are going to celebrate tonight, and maybe that will get Laurent’s mind off Damen.

Laurent has never felt this way before about anyone, never had someone affect him like this. Any time he has a spare moment, there Damen is in his thoughts, kissing him, blowing him, and showing such purposeful _care_ with him. The thoughts plague him so much that they’re like a movie he has watched so many times he has it memorized. Damen infuriates him with his stubbornness, taunts him with his attentions, and amazes him with his talents. Laurent isn’t sure what he wants more: to kiss him or kill him.

He decides to go for a walk to clear his head, letting the bustling city soundscape distract him. Laurent hears the harmonies of the car horns, the rhythms of the construction, like something out of a Gershwin composition. He closes his eyes and drifts. His feet bring him to a music shop, and he browses the instruments, scores, and recordings. There are a few performances he conducted among the CDs and DVDs, including _The Rake’s Progress_ they did a few years ago, where Auguste played Nick Shadow. That one had been one of Laurent’s favorites. The subject matter is mature, but he wonders if Auguste’s child will grow up to watch his dad in this.

Just then, he gets a text from Jord, asking if he wants to grab coffee. _Sure,_ he texts back, and starts walking to the café. Laurent orders a iced vanilla latte and waits a few minutes until Jord arrives, orders, and joins him.

“You’re such a stereotype sometimes,” Jord teases and takes a sip.

“What?”

“An iced coffee? It’s November.”

“We’re inside!” Laurent laughs, feeling lighter. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Jord says, “bored to tears with Puccini, dealing with boy problems, the usual.”

“Don’t tell me you’re seeing Aimeric again.” Jord smiles down into his drink, cheeks reddening. Laurent groans. “You’re a disaster.”

Jord looks up at Laurent. “I’m not the one looking like I’m about to pounce on stage and climb a certain baritone like a tree.”

Laurent’s mouth opens, as if about to speak, but the words won’t come out.

“Oh my god.”

“Is it that obvious?” he asks, dropping his head in his hands.

“Probably not to anybody else, but I know you too well, and I’ve never seen you get so flustered with a guy.”

“He drives me fucking crazy. I can’t stand him.” Jord just looks at him, pointedly. Laurent sighs. “He—he and I…”

Jord almost spits out his drink. _“You didn’t.”_

Laurent closes his eyes and nods, pained. “It was after the _Don Giovanni_ opening night. In his dressing room. I was so mad at him—”

“Yeah, it looked like you were about to throw your baton at him.”

“Oh shut up,” Laurent says. “I don’t—I don’t know what came over me.”

“Wait, _you_ started it? Not him?”

Laurent answers with a grimace. “I kissed him, and then he pushed me against the wall and it all happened so fast and _it was so good_ and I can’t stop thinking about it and—”

Jord puts a hand on Laurent’s arm. “Laurent, slow down.”

Laurent forces a deep, shaking breath. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to finish the season with him. I can’t _think_ when I’m around him.”

“You have some time until his next performance. Just avoid him.”

“I can’t. We have _Billy Budd_ to work on, and we’re gonna start _Onegin_ soon.” He looks up at Jord, desperate. “Just Damen and me.”

“Would it help if I accompanied you on violin for those rehearsals?”

Laurent shakes his head. “It’ll be too obvious why, and then it’ll be even more awkward.”

“Damn. Is there something awful you can accuse him of so you have an excuse to recast him?” Laurent glares at Jord, who only smiles and takes their empty cups away.

“Jord, he’s the best baritone I’ve directed. He’s—He’s better than Auguste. It would be the worst decision of my career if I got rid of him.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Laurent gets up and shrugs on his coat. “I don’t know, Jord. I don’t know.”

* * *

The buzzer startles Laurent as he towel-dries his hair. Damen is here sooner than Laurent thought he would be.

 _Come over,_ he texted him an hour ago.

During tonight’s _Madama Butterfly_ premiere, Laurent saw Damen standing off in the wings. They had been avoiding one another, and every interaction after the _Don Giovanni_ opening night left Laurent about to burst. He hates Damen. He hates him so much.

And it’s because Damen is right. About everything.

Laurent couldn’t take it anymore.

He walks to the intercom and presses the button to let Damen up.

“Hi,” Damen says when Laurent opens the door.

“Hi.”

“Can I—are you going to let me in?”

Laurent steps back, allowing Damen into his flat.

_The soprano playing Cio-Cio-san steps away from the mezzo playing Suzuki. Laurent meets her eyes and cues her and the orchestra. “Un bel dì, vedremo,” her soft voice begins._

After only a second of awkward silence, Damen rushes forward and kisses him, hotly, on the mouth. Laurent pulls back and walks to his bedroom, expecting Damen to follow him. From there, they don’t speak. Laurent’s chest is tight, his breath constricted and hurried, as Damen peels his lounge clothes off him.

“Kiss me,” Damen says, and Laurent’s heart stops at how Damen’s voice is so laced with desire.

They kiss, and kiss, and never quite pull away from one another again. Damen’s hands and lips are all over him, mapping him out. It’s all so good. Laurent’s stomach hurts, and he’s light-headed. He stays quiet when Damen gives him head again. He only hisses when Damen fingers him. If he lets himself make any more noise, he won’t be able to control it.

Damen gets him on his hands and knees and pushes in.

_The drums rumble when Cio-Cio-san sings, “romba il suo saluto.” Laurent’s chest vibrates, and his heart echoes the beat._

He gasps. Damen curses under his breath and starts thrusting, slow at first, and then pounding into him with a steady rhythm. Every inch of Damen’s cock drags in and out of him, stimulating his rim’s sensitive nerves. The fullness, the intense stretch, knocks the wind out of Laurent and churns his building desire. It’s maddening.

It’s terrifying. Laurent clenches just to keep himself from shaking.

_“—e aspetto, e aspetto gran tempo,” her voice trills up and down, her coloratura faultless. Laurent breathes with her, following her fluctuations, so the orchestra comes in at the right beat, “e non mi pesa la lunga attesa.”_

_When she starts the next verse, Laurent sees Damen standing just off stage in the wings, watching her. “E uscito dalla folla cittadina, un uomo—”_

Laurent’s back arches, his hips are pushing back into Damen against his will. The change in angle shoots a bolt of lightning up his spine. He collapses and bites the bedding to hold back a groan. Damen grips his ass tighter with punctuated, aimed thrusts.

_“Chi sarà? Chi sarà?” Laurent signals the tempo increase. “E come sarà giunto.”_

Damen leans over him, lips and breath hot against his jaw, and circles his hips, grinding his cock inside Laurent. It’s slower, deeper, and _so much better._ Laurent cannot help but move with him. Damen grabs both of his hands and pushes them into the mattress, and Laurent feels him rest his forehead at the nape of his neck, straddled thighs tensing with each movement.

_“Che dirà? Che dirà? Chiamerà—”_

Damen breathes, “Laurent.”

_“—‘Butterfly’ dalla lontana.” He slows them down a moment, letting her smiling vocals and the orchestra bloom on the phrase. “Io senza dar risposta—”_

And Laurent, surrendering, moans, “Damen,” in return. Damen kisses his neck and snakes one hand under Laurent’s body to grab his cock, which he has been rubbing against the duvet without realizing.

_“—me ne starò nascosta, un po’ per celia—”_

Laurent closes his eyes tighter, too exposed and broken open.

“You feel so good, Laurent. So tight. Fuck,” Damen starts rambling, moaning, his voice darker, lower, huskier, rougher. Laurent’s eyes roll back, and he shivers.

He whines, “Damen,” again, helplessly.

_“—e un po’ per non morire!” Her voice soars, and a chill races over Laurent’s skin. His lungs swell with the strings and brass. “—al primo incontro, ed egli alquanto in pena chiamerà, chiamerà: ‘Piccina mogliettina, olezzo di verbena,’ i nomi che mi dava al suo venire,” Cio-Cio-san sweetly comes down from the first peak. Laurent cues the strings, leading her into the final climactic verse. He notices Damen watching her, rapt, in awe._

Damen sits back and hauls Laurent into his lap, chest to back, and plunges back into him, grinding into his prostate with every move— 

_“—Tutto questo avverrà, te lo prometto—”_

—He pumps Laurent in his fist in time with his thrusts and wraps the other arm across his chest, holding them flush— 

_“—Tienti la tua paura—io con sicura fede—”_

_Laurent’s heart stops, the whole world stops. He hangs on the minuscule break after the phrase and holds a hand out to cue the orchestra’s glissando into the high note, imbuing the gesture with the electric urgency driving him forward._

_Then the soprano’s voice erupts, “lo aspetto!” and—_

—he cries out and throws his head back on Damen’s shoulder. Laurent’s breath ceases, choking on a sob, as Damen fucks his orgasm out of him. He barely has a chance to realize he’s alive before he is flipped onto his back, Damen entering him in one smooth motion. Laurent clutches him, all the walls inside him falling apart as Damen whispers into his neck, “I have to—”

Laurent grabs his curls in one fist and says, “Come for me.”

And Damen does, slamming into him and stilling with a pained, relieved gasp.

_A tear runs down his cheek at the high note. Laurent smiles, finishing the aria with his orchestra as the crowd bursts into applause, every single person on their feet, the cheers drowning out the end of the music._

_He sees Damen, still in the wings, with tear-stained skin, clapping and smiling. He turns his head and notices Laurent looking at him._

_And there are no possible translations for what is communicated between them._

_That night, when Laurent gets home, he texts Damen two words:_

_Come over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opera gods please forgive me for getting so horny over britten and puccini. britten was a huge homo so maybe he'll understand. don't worry britten, i'll make it up to you next chapter i promise.
> 
> but also puccini it's your own goddamn fault for writing an aria that literally feels like an orgasm. fuck you.
> 
> This chapter covers the first track through the Puccini: Madama Butterfly track in the fic playlist, linked in the work notes. The first song is where the work title comes from, and the next is the chapter title. Then everything leading up to Don Giovanni is the auditions. The rest speak for themselves. You'll probably definitely want to listen to "Un bel dì vedremo" and read the lyrics. Trust me. It's important for Certain Scene Reasons. Also it's the Maria Callas version because we fucking stan La Divina in this household. Because it's the one I don't really translate as I go, here is info about the aria: [Un bel dì vedremo](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Un_bel_d%C3%AC_vedremo), and here is a video of it: [Un bel dì vedremo : Hiromi Omura ("蝶々夫人"から"ある晴れた日に":大村博美)](https://youtu.be/YDuKbV0Ru7g?t=25)  
> It can be difficult to find a version sung by an actual Japanese soprano. Yay opera. /sarcasm.
> 
> Here are other performances that inspired how I wrote in this chapter, or that I like in general:  
> [Il Barbiere di Siviglia: "Largo al factotum" (Peter Mattei)](https://youtu.be/-ipb9xbXSAY)  
> [Il barbiere di Siviglia: 'Largo al factotum' (Figaro's Aria) - Glyndebourne](https://youtu.be/z_i6zkWESS4)  
> [Don Giovanni: ‘Madamina, il catalogo è questo’ (The Catalogue Aria) – Glyndebourne](https://youtu.be/JtJ1VqeyrCI)  
> [Mariusz Kwiecień performs Don Giovanni's Champagne Aria (The Royal Opera)](https://youtu.be/CUOWb40LIuw)  
> [Don Giovanni: ‘Deh, vieni alla finestra’ (‘Oh, come to the window’) – Glyndebourne](https://youtu.be/n6dXiybqMpo)  
> [Don Giovanni: 'A cenar teco' - Glyndebourne](https://youtu.be/YifEnNzKDpU)  
> [Don Giovanni: 'A cenar teco' (I have no idea what production BUT IT FUCKS)](https://youtu.be/7cb1QmTkOAI)  
> [Madama Butterfly : 'Un bel dì vedremo' - Glyndebourne (let's throw in a Glyndebourne Un bel dì for good measure)](https://youtu.be/UXrcRZtDz84)
> 
> (If you can't tell, I _love_ the productions done at Glyndebourne.)
> 
> Also, please forgive me if I've gotten anything wrong about the audition process or technique or anything. I used to play in orchestra pits when I was younger, and I'm literate enough in music to understand things, but I've never gone through any of this and what I've written is gleaned from stuff I found online or just decided to make up.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me on tumblr and dreamwidth at thatgothlibrarian.
> 
> This opera is by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Known HomosexualTM. The story concerns a selfish hero who lives to regret his blasé rejection of a young woman's love and his careless incitement of a fatal duel with his best friend. The only true duet in the opera is at the end of Act Two, when Onegin and Lensky duel. I argue that is the love duet of the production. [There was a Bayerische Staatsoper production directed by Krzysztof Warlikowski in 2007 which interpreted the two friends as lovers.](https://www.staatsoper.de/en/opera-festival/productioninfo/eugen-onegin/2020-07-20-19-00.html?tx_sfstaatsoper_pi1%5BfromSpielplan%5D=1&tx_sfstaatsoper_pi1%5BpageId%5D=579&cHash=7fba04c5cd36c2e90c91eccb02f07964)
> 
> You can listen to the duel duet here: [Duel Scene - Eugene Onegin - Roderick Williams, Oleksiy Palchykov (Garsington Opera)](https://youtu.be/9GbJOq_hNIA)  
> I also made a Spotify playlist of all the pieces here: [poka ne obagrilasja ruka](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6caANZwr7mD1sRPZWrMT2h?si=cQQnMUeWQL2BIQfYS3hGBQ)
> 
> Although the setting is fictional, all of the operas are real. I will post videos of arias/pieces in the notes of each chapter (along with the relevant _Eugene Onegin_ aria if possible).
> 
> Thank you to Brigit/brigitttt for helping me along the way. ,,mine lavender wife c:


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